


should i suffocate or let go

by elsaclack



Series: close to home [4]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Gen, Not A Fix-It, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Finale Fic, amy freaks out, gina tries to be comforting, more like a coping mechanism, not a lot but mentions of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 13:04:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10991508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsaclack/pseuds/elsaclack
Summary: Amy's not sure, really, when her life became so tragic.She’s not a tragic person. She’s never known sorrow in an intimate way, never really felt her bones turn cold with it. Organization keeps the demons at bay; she knows this as surely as she knows her own name.Enter: Jake Peralta.





	should i suffocate or let go

**Author's Note:**

> notes transcribed from tumblr:
> 
> this is not a fix-it, i should preface!! i’ll have a fix-it eventually, soon probably, but right now i just..need to work through all of these emotions
> 
> i honestly had plans to write…….something after the ep but i can’t
> 
> like i can’t find the words?? i have a vague idea of what i want to do but i can’t quite get it to mesh yet
> 
> listen just,,just stick with me here because what i’m about to do is going to be very train-of-thought-y and i’m not even gonna bother rereading it before i post it, like i’m just gonna write it straight through and hit post and hope the thing works out

Amy’s not sure, really, when her life became so tragic.

She’s not a tragic person. She’s never known sorrow in an intimate way, never really felt her bones turn cold with it. Organization keeps the demons at bay; she knows this as surely as she knows her own name.

Enter: Jake Peralta.

She’s known him, known him deep and true and real, for as long as she’s had her detective’s badge. She knows beyond those laugh lines lies a seemingly never-ending wasteland of abandonment and misery. She’s heard the stories in that thin after-midnight voice, the one stripped of bravado and jest, the one that shakes in the silence and crumbles around the edges. She’s hugged him close, tucked his head beneath her chin, and held him until those memories loosen their stranglehold around him and he sags against her, worn down and defeated.

She knows the weight of him, the way he lays curled against her when the world has left him weary and beaten and broken. It’s the heaviest burden she’s ever had to carry; it’s the only one she’s ever carried gladly.

Amy loves him, she _loves_ him, but her hands won’t stop shaking and he’s not here to wrap them up gently in both of his. He’s not here to back her up against the wall, to drop his forehead down to hers and keep it there until their breaths are in sync and the peace radiating in his warm brown eyes is siphoned directly into her heart. She’s alone, _again_ , and he’s been ripped away from her, _again_ , and she doesn’t remember how to breathe, _again_.

She also doesn’t remember how she got home, but she’s here now, inside the front door, alone.

 _Again_.

Holt told them, in a voice that rang with quiet, barely-controlled rage, that this was not the end. That they had a long fight ahead of them, but that this was by no means the end of their story. They were the first words she could comprehend beyond the guilty verdict.

It felt as though it was supposed to be promising, but all Amy could see was her captain making the same speech one year earlier, as WITSEC officers swiftly cleaned out both his office and Jake’s desk.

The sound of her purse hitting the wooden floor is jarring, and suddenly the act of standing is monumental and impossible. Amy’s knees buckle and she’s on the floor, collapsed, broken, shattered, and everything inside her is escaping all at once and it isn’t fair. It isn’t _fair_ , goddammit, they’re supposed to be _happy_. _He’s_ supposed to be happy. He’s supposed to be happy and in love and - and here, he should be _here_ , he should be on the floor with her and the tears spraying down their faces should be of relief and joy and pure, utter, desperate adoration.

Amy pushes herself up, arms extended straight on either side of her, and releases a primal, strangled roar.

It’s not _fair_.

When she was young, she had these moments of blind rage. Her mother used to call them tantrums; her father used to call then nuclear incidents. They were horrifying and spectacular in their violence and destruction, the stuff Rosa’s dreams are probably made of; her Barbie Dream House is still in shattered pieces in a box in her parents attic. 

It’s rare now, in adulthood, for those bouts of violence to seize her so fully.

But here in this desperation, in this stripped-down laid-bare grief, Amy feels herself slip away.

She’s on the floor, and then she’s not. She’s in the kitchen and there are broken plates on the floor and a few pieces are smeared with blood and she’s hurting, _screaming_ , ripping herself apart from the inside out and _nothing_ is okay. She’s in the bathroom and there are scissors in her hand and murder in her eyes and hair in the sink. There is hair in the sink. There are bloody handprints on the edges of that sink but there is hair in her sink and when she looks in the mirror she sees a haunted, deranged version of herself with hair chopped off to her shoulder on one side. Like a bad Halloween mask. Like a bad nightmare.

Like - like a _horrible tragedy_.

Holt’s words bounce in her skull as she sinks slowly to the floor. _This is not over yet_ , Holt says. It echoes back faintly from twelve months ago. _We’re in for the fight of our lives_.

Amy thinks maybe, just once, she’d like to know what it would feel like to just be happy. To not feel as though she’s holding her breath, waiting for the next tragedy. To go to sleep at night beside the man she loves and to not think about how much larger the space he occupies feels when he’s not there to occupy it; to not have to wonder when the space will be empty once again.

Her hands are bleeding.

Her hands are bleeding and Jake’s going to see, because she’s going to visit him in three days. He’s going to see her bandaged hands and her chopped-off hair and he’s going to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she’s suffering.

 _Again_.

“I almost didn’t make it,” he’d told her in a whisper six days after returning from Florida. “I just kept - kept picturing you alone. I abandoned you.”

She’d shushed him, soothed him, comforted him. And it was easy because he hadn’t seen _those_ smashed plates or those shame cigarettes or those old expensive books from the one and only time over those six months she let Gina talk her into retail therapy. She’d had time to even out, to right that violently-rocking ship before he got to see her face again.

She’ll have no such luck this time.

It’s not a surprise, really, that she’s so lost in despair that she doesn’t hear her front door open. It’s not a surprise that she jumps out of her skin when she feels a presence beside her, that she nearly chokes on her own tongue when she looks up to see Gina carefully lowering herself down to the floor.

“Honey,” Gina says softly, and it’s remarkably devoid of the usual condescending contempt with which Gina usually says that pet name to Amy. Amy’s still digesting this when Gina’s arm slithers around her shoulders and pulls her closer, until her face is buried in Gina’s neck and her tucked-in knees are tilted into Gina’s lap. Amy’s face is wet with tears and blood and Gina’s hair is sticking to it and Amy can’t breathe.

Amy’s not sure how long they stay like that. She’s not sure when Gina forces her to get up, when Gina wordlessly sweeps all the hair out of Amy’s sink and washes Amy’s face and hands under a lukewarm spray, when she silently bandages her palms and leads her back out to the bedroom. Amy’s numb, entranced, dumbstruck. She’s limp where she sags against the side of the bed, against Jake’s side of the bed, and tears are pouring down her face as the faint scent of his shampoo and deodorant and _him_ come wafting up from the comforter beneath her. She’s not sobbing anymore, not screaming anymore, but that’s because she’s fairly certain her heart has left her body and it took all her strength with it.

She hopes, distantly, that it’s headed to the Metropolitan Detention Center.

“C’mon,” Gina says, and Amy’s suddenly aware of the fact that Gina’s kneeling before her and is trying to grab her foot. Amy lets her, too tired to argue even as Gina unzips her boot and pulls it from her foot. “Now the other.”

Amy does as Gina urges, resisting the urge to flop backwards across the mattress and to stay there for the rest of her life. It would be so warm here, so safe here. Nothing could ever hurt her again if she just stays right here in this bed.

Once the boots are discarded on the floor, Gina straightens, and Amy finds herself almost quailing under her hardened, determined gaze. “You are not giving up.” Gina says firmly.

Amy almost wants to laugh. “Why not?”

“Because he has never needed you more than he needs you right now, Santiago. You can’t give up because he’s feeling every single thing you’re feeling right now, except on top of everything else he is absolutely terrified out of his mind. He’s in _prison_.” 

Gina grips both of her shoulders and shakes her slightly, as if to emphasize the words already running through her like swords. “I _know_ , Gina, I was there.” Amy says sharply, shrugging her hands away. “I don’t need you to remind me, okay? I know he’s in prison, I know he’s not here - _again_ \- I know we’ve been torn apart again by things neither one of us can control -”

“Oh would you _stop it_ with the pity party already? Yes, it’s tragic, and yes, you guys have literally the worst luck ever, it’s been established that you’re both hopeless and doomed.” She rolls her eyes, and Amy finds herself fighting off a hysterical laugh. “Look, you’ve had your freak-out. You’ve had your angry-at-the-world _‘why God it’s not fair_ ’ moment. It’s time to refocus on the task at hand, here.”

“It’s been three hours, Gina, this isn’t even close to a proper freak-out time -”

“Freak-out times are directly proportional to the amount of freak-out, and judging by the number of smashed plates in your kitchen and the amount of hair in the bathroom trashcan, I’d say your time just ran out. Now shut your mouth and listen to me, because this is the most important thing I’m ever going to say to you.”

“You said that right before you told me about Janet Jackson’s world tour.” Amy grumbles.

“Yes, I did, and I stand by that. But this isn’t about Janet, it’s about Jake. You and Jake. He’s scared and lonely and hurting, too, only he can’t do anything about it anymore. He needs _you_ to save him. There won’t be any badass Florida chases or shooting each other in the leg this time, you understand that? This is a _case_ , plain and simple. And there is _no one_ at the Nine-Nine who is better at solving cases than _you_ are. He needs you because you’re smart as hell and you’re going to figure this case out and you are going to _prove_ that they’re innocent. And you’re gonna take out the dirtiest cop in history while you do it.”

Fresh tears are leaking down Amy’s face; these taste something like bitterness and hope. “Gina,” she chokes, “I just cut half of my own hair off. I feel like a raving lunatic right now.”

“Yeah, the smashed plates and shredded hands aren’t helping much.” Amy drops her head and huffs out something that lands between a laugh and a sob, and Gina drops to the mattress beside her. “You can replace plates, and your hands will heal. And frankly, you’ve been due for a new hairstyle for, like, six years now. Consider this a blessing.”

“Gina -”

“I’ve already texted my stylist and set an appointment for you. I told her it was a nine-one-one emergency, so she set the appointment for half an hour from now. Change clothes, and - find a hat, or something. This may be Brooklyn, but people _will_ stare on the subway.”

“I’m not really in the mood for a spa day -”

“Bitch, did you not hear what I just said? This is a nine-one-one _emergency_. Trust me, this isn’t a spa day. It’s a rescue mission.”

She’s never felt more like a vessel of desolation before in her life, which is why Gina’s able to easily drag her down to the subway. Her ears burn with shame when the hairstylist, Renee’s thin brows shoot skyward after her hair falls from where Gina tucked it up into the hat; she keeps her eyes closed for the duration of the wash and cut.

Gina falls silent sometime after the hair dryer shuts off, and Amy takes to chewing the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting something horribly embarrassing into the pregnant silence. Renee runs her fingers through Amy’s hair several times, sprays something that smells sickly sweet over her head, and then spins her around. “All done,” Renee says quietly.

Amy’s eyes flutter open and the reflection staring back at her is _anything_ but tragic. Her hair is softer and shinier than she’s seen it look in years, cascading in gentle, lazy waves to just barely brush against her shoulders. She’s aware only vaguely that her breath has caught in her chest; she blinks, and Gina’s there behind her, staring at her in the mirror with the rapt kind of awe Amy’s only seen her stare at herself with. “ _Amy_ ,” Gina says, quiet and trembling, choked with amazement.

“This - this looks incredible,” Amy says, and she’s crying again, but Renee smiles at her kindly and even lets Amy pull her into a hug. “Oh my God, Gina, I - I can’t, I can’t thank you enough, this is -”

“I know.” Gina cuts her off before flinging her arms around her neck and yanking her close for a tight, brief hug. She shoves her back a few inches, but keeps her close with a hand to her shoulder. “You’ve got a badass new style, you’ve got free reign over Rosa’s wardrobe -” she stuffs a keyring into Amy’s hand “- and you’ve got all the smarts you need to solve this case. I’ll kill you if you ever tell anyone about this, but I have full faith that you’re gonna get The Enigma’s uncle and aunt out of prison before she’s graced the world with her presence.”

Amy gasps. “Gina,” she chokes, “you’re having - it’s a  _girl_?”

Gina smiles a little ruefully. “Secret’s out, I guess. Coming to a catwalk near you September twenty-seventeen.” She grips Amy’s upper arms firmly. “Think you can swing a jailbreak by then?”

Amy swallows, and when she blinks she sees an endless stretch of late nights pouring over evidence and case files. She sees pot after pot of burnt, stale coffee, she sees seventeen different colors of highlighters and feels the weight of Terry’s hand between her shoulder blades as he reads a report over her shoulder. She smells Charles’ haggis and that faint, ghostly scent that seems to permeate every nook and cranny of the precinct every time they’re drowning in cases, something like old Chinese food and Scully’s socks. She blinks, and she sees Gina in a hospital bed, this time holding a squirming pink bundle instead of comatose in a neck brace. She sees Jake stooping down beside the bed and kissing his hours-old niece on the forehead before angling up to do the same to Gina; she sees his broad grin, happy and whole.

And the pieces slide back into place.

“I know I can.” Amy says, and it goes beyond determination. It’s a single-minded laser focus, sharp and hot enough to slice through steel, to torch Melanie Hawkins’ career from the ground up.

Gina smirks, one brow quirked. “I do, too. And you’re gonna look damn good doing it, I’ll make sure of that.”

Gina keeps her word, and in the end - when footage of Amy leading a handcuffed Melanie Hawkins through a flurry of reporters into One Police Plaza while sporting a determined snarl and one of Rosa’s black leather jackets airs on the hospital television mounted to the wall opposite of Gina’s bed - they’re both right.

She looks damn good.


End file.
